Mystery
by The Codebreaker
Summary: "Noun, plural mysteries. 1. anything that is kept secret or remains unexplained or unknown." John, writing again, starts to find out more about himself then he ever wanted to know, receives plural cryptic messages, and realizes that Sherlock may not be as gone as he had originally thought, though he gets more than he asked for. Eventual Johnlock, some Mystrade, set post-Reichenbach
1. Chapter 1

Hello all, it's Cody here with my first published fic in something like years. Ouch. Enjoy. PM me with questions, I love you all in the Sherlock fanbase.

[definition from dictionary dot com.]

* * *

Why was John in London again?

He dialed the number one more time, tapping anxiously on the red painted metal, paint flaking with age. Somewhere along the line, Mycroft Holmes had been here. He recognized the thin wires, hiding amongst graffiti. Nick '03, Jenna + Mark must once have been proud of their hastily Sharpied declarations of location or love. Now their writings concealed wires and bugs- digital, not biological.

Clever Mycroft.

John now realized why keeping tabs on the younger Holmes had been essential- now that Sherlock was dead and gone, Mycroft's wires rotted away just as surely as Sherlock's body was.

John forced himself to listen, absentmindedly leaning on his new, no-frills cane. The limp was back and he blamed Sherlock- blamed him for the ache in his shoulder that returned every time his thoughts strayed at night. The nightmares were back too, the bullets ricocheting in John's brain waking him as surely as Sherlock's shots into the wall had.

Sometimes, the yellow smiley face, haunting John's dreams, became Sherlock, face becoming more twisted and more warped, shifting into Moriarty, then Mycroft, as John realized the similarities between them, all of the eerie similarities, as their faces became Polaroids, and the Polaroids stuck on an imaginary wall, suddenly being connected with flesh and blood instead of string, a mutant version of one of Sherlock's mystery walls.

John woke up screaming.

The Diogenes Club number rang through once more, sending a clear message.

_Don't call me._

John didn't doubt that Mycroft could have a phone booth put out of service with half a text, so he stopped calling. The doctor leaned up against the grimy window of the phone booth, absentmindedly wondering why they were red to keep his mind off of Sherlock. It wasn't as if he had anything worth doing left.

* * *

John was now in a tiny flat just outside of London. He loved London, but there was no way he could afford a flat in the heart of the city anymore, not without a flat-share. And his last flatmate had died on the streets of London. It wasn't a very pleasant prospect, to live in the city again, so he stayed away, instead taking a job an hour away in a little town.

John's new flat was absolutely tiny, and regulation-perfect. It seemed odd, really, to resort to doing everything military style, but it was habit, and in habit was comfort. John didn't spend time there, anyway. The flat was simply for sleeping and that was it. He spent his hours working in a country doctor's office an hour away from home, and overtime was every day without fail. He even worked Saturdays and Sundays, even when the clinic wasn't open, filing paperwork or cleaning, anything to be occupied.

The receptionist fancied him, and it was obvious. She was a slightly pretty but dull brunette in her early thirties, and she wore bad perfume and the same gold earrings every day. She was from America, and it showed. Every morning there was a new coffee stain on her dress- always floral, always knee-length, always accompanied by the same tan nylons with the run on the left knee. She had an unflattering bob haircut, and it didn't move, ever. Every hair always seemed to be in its place, like her hair was styled plastic. There was a gap between her two front teeth that childhood braces hadn't fixed. She had two loves, and two loves only [after a disastrous first marriage], and they were, in order, soap operas and John.

She was rather habitual and slightly obsessive. Every morning there would be an apple on his desk [the only thing besides the old-style engraved nameplate- John kept a clean desk as well] and five minutes later John would be digesting the apple. He never ate breakfast except for it, and he truly did appreciate the apples, but it felt strange to accept the gift every day. After three months of apples and a birthday card, he took her to lunch at the sandwich shop three and a half miles from the office's front door.

He discovered that he knew less about her than he thought, but none of it was interesting enough to register.

_Remember when you and Sherlock went to dinner? _whispered the traitorous voice that resided somewhere in his hippocampus. He hadn't entertained the thought before today, as the name was the key to the locked vault in his thoughts, the vault of anything and everything relating to the Holmes boys. Who had called them that first, Mrs Hudson?

John let his thoughts slip back to London.

* * *

"_A boyfriend, then?" John was not disgusted or repulsed or looking for gossip. His only emotions lingering around this simple question were simply interest with a surrounding haze of curiosity._

_Sherlock's carefully worded, slightly biting and much too fast reply set his thoughts blazing, his words the match that started the forest fire._

_Oh._

_He knew that tone, the too-fast and clipped words much too well. From Harry. The first time, he recalled, from when she'd denied having her first girlfriend, a petite brunette whose spirit John had liked._

_He spent his quiet time with Sherlock always thinking, as he knew the dark-haired man was prone to do._

_Sherlock's secret was akin to his omnipresent coat, always there, but never quite the focus with Sherlock in the room. He was unquestionably the focus._

_Just being aware of his existence, let alone living with him, the air was a vacuum, and it seemed as if the only source of air was Sherlock._

* * *

John opened his eyes to cold coffee and no date.

The apples stopped coming.

* * *

John had dazed off like that again barely a week ago. It had been three months after apples, and John's Sherlock mind-void again became the magnificent black hole it once had been, Sherlock's _interesting_ being so vast and varied that everything else paled and withered away with the slightest comparison.

John exhaled in something similar to frustration and exited the phone booth. He knew now that he couldn't repress anything relating to Sherlock, as the Sherlock tree had rooted itself firmly into his mind, and nothing short of total amnesia..._not even,_ John said to himself, _My blog__..._

He would remember that moment for an extremely long time, as it was when the first idea sparked into his head.

_I will write. Continue the blog, no, but write. Not in Sherlock's memory, exactly...but in his honor._

_I will write what could have been._ Then John laughed at himself. _I am becoming a sentimental man. Not good._

He dismissed the idea, but soon sentiment slipped through John's thought barrier like weak acid, slowly eating through, then rushing forward all at once, causing burning, scars that stayed.

_Mysteries. He would have appreciated it._

The first short mystery was tapped out on his old laptop, word by word. John rather enjoyed writing again, and ideas came in bits and pieces so that even he himself had not figured out the murderer until the very end. This, the debut of John's collection, featured a hunter found dead in his locked cabin, keys in hand and no cause of death apparent.

_Blake examined the keys stuck fast in the dead man's grip, tried to tug them away. Completely useless. This man had kept his keys on his person at all times, and this little cabin was sealed up tighter than the Crown Jewels, save for a few windows, locked but still glass, and the door propped open by Blake, as even the chimney had a makeshift cover at its top, a simple piece of cardboard taped down. Seems the old paranoid man was even scared of squirrels hopping in and devouring his food stores. Blake turned his attention back to the corpse. His eyes were closed gently as if he were sleeping, and the detective wondered vaguely if one of the medical team had closed them. He thought about poisoned food for a minute, then ruled it out. He had been a paranoid man, enough as to kill and eat most of his own food. He had only ever trusted three people, two of whom resided inside his head, the other his sister, who was currently being questioned, with no motive apparent. This man was healthy, in looks at least. His cheeks were red, his skin tanned but not burned, hair still a medium brown, having not yet faded to grey. Blake lifted the man's eyelids, making sure no one but Aiden could see him. His slim, attractive assistant hadn't been hired for his looks, but they were definitely a plus._

John stopped himself, quietly horrified. What had he written? He deleted the last sentence quickly and tried again.

_...no one but Aiden could see him. He glanced over at the quiet blond, who had busied himself examining the man's book collection. _

"_How To Hunt and Cook a Deer Effectively," read Aiden, slightly amused. "I'd have thought he'd know that already."_

"_What else is in there?"_

"_A guide to identifying the local flora and fauna, a journal, and...oh, hmmm." _

_The 'hm' caught Blake's attention, and he turned to the blond. _

"_Erotica," he said, containing a snicker._

John stopped and stared into the dregs of what had been a perfectly brewed cup of Earl Grey. _Maybe I'm just... _He deleted the past few sentences, took a cold shower, and went to bed.

He arrived at the clinic the next morning to find the woman with the apples had gone. In her place was a thin, dark haired young man, barely twenty, with his nose in a novel. _I'll bet that's what Sherlock looked like when he was younger..._ There were similarities, a good few, but too many differences for the thought to stick. He was wearing glasses with rectangular frames, a tan button-down shirt, and brown trousers with a chocolate brown tie, though it was askew. His eyes were rich forest green, not exactly reminiscent of the ice blue of John's former flatmate. He looked healthy, fuller, as if he slept and ate well, much different from Sherlock's tea-and-that-is-all days. Instead of being thin and proud, the boy [he didn't quite have the look of a man] had a nose which was slightly crooked and rounder. The curls were similar, yet the boy's were tighter and more well kept.

"Sir? May I help you...?" The green eyes had flicked up to study John's face, and his accent varied completely from Sherlock's 'rich-background-Londoner' type. He sounded Irish. Dublin? Was that in Ireland? John's knowledge of Irish geography was limited at best.

"Sir...?"

That was when the blond doctor realized that he'd been staring at the new receptionist for at least three or four minutes, dissecting his features and comparing them to a dead man's.

"Oh, I'm sorry, er, I, um, work here. I'm John Watson, ah, corner office."

"You're Dr. Watson? _The_ Dr. Watson of Holmes and Watson fame?"

Bloody hell, a fanboy.

"Um, yes. Now, I have, er, patients to attend to." The new receptionist's stare was making John stutter. It was _exactly_ like Sherlock's "I know everything about you" look. Quite creepy. He brushed past the boy and headed to his office, a tiny, stuffy room sans windows or lighting of any sort except one old floor lamp with scuff marks on its base that only worked half the time. Needless to say, the door was usually propped open with numerous medical texts. John's office once had been, and still was, the closet, so texts of these sort filled the tiny room floor to ceiling, leaving little room for the creaky beige metal folding chair and scuffed-up old faux wood table that John used as his desk and chair, and a few ugly greenish filing cabinets full of medical supplies and forms.

_Tomorrow I'll get through to Mycroft..._

_Tomorrow..._

_Tomorrow._


	2. Chapter 2

Alright everyone, here I present to you chapter deux. Enjoy!

* * *

John kept promising himself that he'd reach Mycroft somehow, even if it meant burning his savings on a cab to the Diogenes Club.

Which is exactly what he did one fine Sunday morning.

John found himself in the cab without much motivation, as he did occasionally. Instead of saying the name of a bookstore or a coffee shop, he pulled a faded scrap of embossed stationary out of his wallet and told the driver an address a couple of blocks away from the esteemed Diogenes Club. He entered silently and carefully and quite literally used Mycroft's name to open the doors. The man himself was sitting at his desk, looking unhealthier than John had ever seen him. He was sallow and pale, more doughy than John had remembered him. Comfort eating? Likely. Mycroft was smoking a cigar without much interest, a small crumbly raspberry tart and a cold cup of tea (undoubtedly London's finest) adorning the large wooden desk.

"John. I was expecting you."

John kept himself from scoffing. So arrogant, yet so...endearing were these brothers, the Holmes boys. _One brother now, and it had to be Mycroft._ John sighed quietly.

"Were you?"

"Oh, yes. That's why you were let in."

John felt a small piece of his pride die. And he'd thought he'd simply done everything correctly.

"Even the cab driver is on my side, John, why do you think he dropped you off practically on this club's front step, why do you think there was a cab around your apartment exactly as you needed one?"

John felt vaguely annoyed, but knew that he shouldn't, as Mycroft smirked, a ghost of the former arrogant I-rule-you smirk of his past. This one seemed to simply be keeping up appearances for John's sake. It told the doctor that Mycroft was suffering just as much as him, and for some reason John hated knowing that. He'd subconsciously been relying on Mycroft to be his former darkly intelligent self, but that hope now withered away and perished.

_Sherlock was his brother, no matter how much each despised the other. They've known each other all their lives, yet I have just known them only a tiny fraction of my life. And to think I knew Sherlock, at least._

_I am not one of the family._

"Why today, Mycroft?" John asked, hating himself for having to lean on his cane as both his shoulder and leg began to ache.

"It is the one year anniversary of Sherlock's unfortunate demise."

_Demise_. Screw Mycroft, typical Mycroft, for making it sound like he enjoyed Sherlock being gone. As his smirk had said, he missed Sherlock just as much as John, perhaps more. He was playing tough, playing perfect, playing to show others that people's lives were trivial, and the death of his own brother had had no affect on him whatsoever. John wasted no affection on this man, not as he had his brother. _I had affection for Sherlock...?_ John asked himself silently, then unconsciously decided that it was only logical. _Of course I did...we were...friends._

"One year anniversary..." John tasted the words as if they were bitter coffee.

"You always did like anniversaries. Numbers, Doctor Watson, they are numbers, and you are a logical man. A numerical man. You adore routine, and anniversaries are one year routines," explained Mycroft, a hint of his old smugness showing through, pausing after 'one,' 'year,' and 'routines,' exactly as Sherlock had when he had said 'days on end' at their first meeting. _Why and how do I remember these things? _John asked himself, biting his tongue to avoid any outwards emotional reaction whatsoever. He posed a question, somewhat in the form of a statement.

"And so you predicted that I'd be here."

"Of course," he replied lightheartedly, the tone just as forced as the sickly sweet jovial smile he wore, stretched tightly across his pale face. "There is more logic to it, of course, but that is the simple version for the simple country doctor."

John needed Mycroft's respect, so he ignored the jibe.

"Mycroft, if you are so intelligent and logical, why are you not looking for Sherlock? He should have divulged his whereabouts to you at least," John said, a slight bitter taste on his tongue, pulling at straws.

"Sherlock is not on some silly trip, Doctor Watson, my brother is dead and gone, or have you not yet heard the news?" The other man's tone was biting, dry and sarcastic. Even John could tell that this was not a forced emotion- or if it was, Mycroft was _extremely_ good.

As soon as the good doctor had departed, Mycroft ashed the cigar and sent Sherlock a text.

_John still believes you dead, though he tried his very best. _-_M_

Scarcely a minute later, he received a reply.

_How is he? -SH_

Mycroft smiled and answered.

_Not well, I'm afraid. Looking a tad thin and pale. He's gone quite grey in your absence. Shall I send him your love? -M_

Sherlock did not reply. His concern for John was rather cute, in Mycroft's opinion. The kind of cute that made him snicker aloud and record for blackmail purposes later. Poor John.

John was currently sitting at his desk, looking rather strangely at his laptop, as if it were a person who had just said something offhandedly in Swedish. He was holding a mug of tea, more for the smell and the comforting warmth than a drink. He was currently coming to terms with the fact that he might not be entirely straight. He put the tea down and made coffee, strong black coffee which he downed despite the bitterness.

He had been writing, attempting to write a murder, something that usually involved no romance whatsoever unless Sherlock was involved. John looked despairingly into the empty coffee mug and downed his tea as well. He could hear it sloshing around in his stomach as if a small piece of the ocean had taken up residence in his digestive tract. He took out a notebook, an old lined notebook that had been nestled snugly in his desk drawer until now.

_I think I might be gay. That blonde girl from my history class is so cute and I can't stop looking at her when I'm trying to do assignments and my grades have gotten worse and god, she's got a boyfriend and he's the captain of the football team or some shit and it hurts bad looking at her. I know her name but I shouldn't say it unless someone finds this book. I'm so scared. Help me._

The notebook wasn't his, it had been Harry's in high school. She'd written in it and given it to John eventually, after she'd come to terms with her sexuality. It was an incredibly personal thing, and John felt trusted. He sometimes got it out and read a page or two, but today he sat down on his bed, as it was truly the only somewhat comfortable place to sit in the tiny flat, his desk chair being wooden.

Harry's entries weren't dated or anything, it was simply one page after another of words, the pen color sometimes changing in the middle of a sentence or word. Harry had always been incredibly inconsistent. This was her at her worst, scared and confused and only writing when she could hide it, never hiding it the same place twice. John thumbed through the notebook. It had originally been seventy pages, but some were missing. He opened up to a random page.

_I kissed Ella today. It was wonderful. Just being around her is wonderful. I could live like this forever. But she's graduating in two months and moving to America. I'll never see her again. Is this what losing someone feels like?_

John closed the notebook, feeling vaguely sick. _It must have been the coffee... _He went to bed.

John finished another Blake and Aiden mystery over the next few days. This one involved arsenic and tea, and a few more interesting subjects. It seemed to be turning out that Blake and Aiden were secretly having an affair despite Blake being married. John sighed a lot. He hadn't started out writing homoerotic fiction. He tried hard on the next one. It was free of romance of any sort, and he became quite proud of himself. He posted this one on a blog, not his, but a new one, something anonymous, and challenged his readers for the answer.

John was kind of happy for a while, enjoying writing again. He missed Sherlock more than he should, even missing the sound of his violin as he thought.

_John came home today talking about the cute boy in his science class. Mum and Dad weren't exactly happy._

John paused. What? First, he'd apparently had a crush on some boy (which he didn't exactly remember in the first place), then he'd come home to his parents and _bragged_ about it. That never would have happened, not at all... He continued to read.

_He's sixteen already and he thinks he's straight but sometimes he'll crush on boys... Last time it was the redhead in math._

He put the notebook down. She must have been joking. Lying. Making up things to get John reading more of the book or something. This was completely unlikely.

"Package for a Mr. John Watson?"

John signed and took the box, a small postal box with no return address. It lay wasting on his floor for a while as he returned to his normal routine, bored. When he opened it, it contained a note, just a few words written on a scrap of newspaper.

_Be standing outside of 221 Baker St. Wednesday the 11th, 11 pm._

Curious, he did as the note said, showing up in a comfortable jumper and coat and leaving his cane at home, though he ended up favoring his good leg.

_This must have something to do with Sherlock. Mycroft? Maybe...he's usually more direct...he'd just send a cab, and have them pick me up...or he'd pull a phone booth trick, maybe...or text me. He could just text me. _

A sleek black Bentley pulled up and stopped right in front of John. The window slowly rolled down with a soft, barely audible automatic _whirr_.

A finely boned, pale hand emerged from the inky black of the automobile's interior, its owner turned away and wearing a hood. The hand held an envelope, larger than normal letter size. The paper was heavy, manila colored, and expensive. There were words on the front, elegantly written calligraphy from a talented hand. The words read 'Doctor John H. Watson, regarding Mr. Sherlock Holmes.' John took the envelope, examining it in the light of the streetlamp as the Bentley silently rolled off.

"You could have just posted this, you know-" John began to say to an empty street, then sighed.

A few minutes later, he was in 221B, hanging up his coat and yelling to Sherlock. "Message came for you!" John had made tea, sat down, and was examining the envelope before he realized that Sherlock Holmes was gone. He froze, suddenly knowing where he was. The quiet was much too much for him as he figured out what he'd done.

John returned home, shoving the now uninteresting, unwanted envelope into the bottom of a stack of bills and going to bed. He didn't even bother brushing his teeth. He had an appointment with Ella the next day and he sure as hell didn't want to tell her about his strange relapse of sorts. John felt like absolute shit, tossing and turning in bed for the better part of an hour before he even got drowsy.

_I'm so sorry for trying to get away from these memories, Sherlock...I don't want to forget you, but I don't want to come undone... _ whispered his nearly sleeping self on the verge of losing consciousness. _I'm so sorry._

John fell into a fitful, hellish sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

And now ladies and gentlemen, chapter three for your viewing pleasure. To clarify, there is absolutely no character/OC pairing anywhere.

* * *

Three weeks, countless bills, one blind date, six bad fashion choices, and one breakdown later, the envelope resurfaced.

_God, why did I ever go? Why did I think that going back to Baker Street would do me any good at all? It quite obviously did not. I'm such an idiot. I need a vacation or some shit._

John stared almost hatefully down at it and turned on the telly instead. His mind drifted off to the awful date. He'd asked an acquaintance from work to set him up. Turned out even she thought he was gay. John groaned. The guy, a good-looking youngish blond, had been nice enough, even accepting, but John had blushed and stuttered through most of the misunderstanding. Apparently it had been quite endearing. He still had the guy's number scrawled in Sharpie across the receipt, which was still in the pocket of the jeans he'd worn, though the only reason he'd ever call would probably be to apologize. Poor sod. He'd been looking for a date and got John. Maybe this was how all of his ex-girlfriends felt. God damn.

John made himself a cup of spiked coffee, something he used to do in college, and downed it. Living on his own was kind of shitty, but at least he never found heads in the fridge anymore. The doctor gave a dry, brittle laugh. He realized that he had come to depend on Sherlock much more than he originally thought, depended on the extraordinary man for something akin to his sanity. John turned off the telly and grabbed the envelope, ripping it open with a knife. The envelope contained three pieces of paper, one covered in dots, one blank, and one with Russian writing on it (at least it looked like Russian).

_What the hell? What is this? _John looked at everything again and again. _God damn, at least send your cryptic messages in the Queen's English next time. Sherlock probably read Russian, but I sure don't. Not all of us soak up languages like sponges._

He stared at the dotted paper for a while, holding it up, down, under the light, above the light, to the left, right and center of the light, holding it upside down, staring at it really hard as if he just_ looked_ hard enough letters would materialize. He looked at the blank paper next, just staring at it as if it were a photo negative and enough _looking _would make it spontaneously develop.

For a couple of hours, absolutely nothing happened. Then John realized that he had access to the Internet. He almost kicked himself. _Jesus, Watson, pull yourself together, you're not in the eighteen hundreds here! You have your laptop, right, you're not a caveman, and now...? _There was a fleeting moment of brilliance, _hm, this is how Sherlock must have felt all the time,_ and then a moment of overwhelming stupidity as he realized that he'd lost his laptop weeks ago amongst the occasional alcoholic drink and his not being at his flat nearly at all. John kicked a chair, a rather ugly chair that he wasted no affection on. He was frustrated, pacing the tiny length and width of the minuscule studio flat, tugging at the bottom of his jumper in extreme annoyance. John only realized as he passed the collection of minor appliances that constituted as a kitchen that he was quite peckish. He went to get some toast and accidentally dropped the piece of blank paper in there as well. John panicked and then burned himself rather badly in the process of attempting to remove it, which tacked on another item to his never ending personal to-do list. _Item whatever and four: Acquire a wooden utensil of some sort for procuring toast and other toasted objects from the toaster. Fingers are not an acceptable substitute. _By the time John had rinsed, cleaned, medicated, and wrapped said burns, he was no longer peckish. He turned on the television and lost himself in some bland soap opera where every medical problem ever conceived was solved in forty-two minutes or less (an hour including commercials). _That could be a good slogan. Or a catchphrase? _John thought to himself. _Come to John Watson's Magical Clinic for all your medical needs. All problems solved in forty-two minutes or less, guaranteed. _

John laughed, then hiccuped. He realized that he was somewhat tipsy. _Should have realized that two hours ago, mate, when you stuck your fingers in the toaster, that piece of shit, _His brain reprimanded him. _Also, to do list item whatever and five: acquire a new toaster and a higher resilience for alcohol, you lightweight. You used to drink out all the time in college and now it seems your liver can't even handle a good old fashioned spiked coffee. Also, it would be advisable to acquire a life._

John almost hit himself in the head to get his brain to shut up, but he figured that going to bed would hurt considerably less in the morning. So John went to bed, his brain shut up, and the now-toasted piece of paper and its kin were forgotten.

He took the next day off from work, something that hadn't happened in a very long time. He slept off the coffee, got crap takeaway from the local Chinese [which John didn't know was good or bad according to Sherlock- if only he were here to analyse the bottom third of the door handle] and generally had a kind of crap day. When he went to toast a piece of bread to go with his tea (_just_ tea this time, thank you), there was something in the bottom of the toaster which was kind of jammed in. He turned the toaster upside down over the sink and shook it. Enough crumbs to fill a glass fell out, and amongst them a piece of heavy cream colored paper. He picked it up, brushing off the toast crumbs and turning it over. Brown letters in careful, large hand covered the small, thick piece's surface. The paper was only about three inches in length and one in width, and contained one word: _MIRROR. _John was completely and totally confused. Mirror? What the hell? Why was there a piece of paper with the word 'mirror' written on it in his toaster? Why was there _paper _in his toaster? Had he gotten so drunk the other day that he'd stuffed paper in his toaster? Was it something he'd forgotten to remember? He sighed and tossed it onto a pile of paper on his coffee table. The paper can wait. Toast cannot. John finished his toast and tea a while later and again regarded the paper, collecting it and its kin from the coffee table.

_Heavy envelope, one formerly blank bit of card stock now reading MIRROR, one piece of paper covered in dots, and one piece of paper with Russian writing. Why? And who's this from, anyway? They could have just posted it... _John's fondness for real-life mysteries seemed to have faded along with Sherlock. He sighed and watched a bland action film before retiring to bed.

The next morning he headed off to work as usual. Having to deal with the backup of paperwork wasn't exactly pleasant, but there wasn't much else to do. Weekdays were extremely slow... As were the weekends. If there was a more boring job around, John couldn't find it. The new assistant had cleaned up his office somewhat, which John was grateful to him for, but he'd left a note on his desk that read '_I'm sorry about Sherlock_' in messy cursive. John's heart sank a little, and he brushed the note into the bin. Dealing with it himself was hard enough anyway. A few days later, the kid had apparently been informed of the apple tradition as there was a funny looking yellow thing on his desk. It kind of looked like fingers all bundled together. He picked it up and smelled it. It certainly had a faint aroma of citrus, but it looked like something out of a horror novel. He just left it there. Kid had a good sense of humor at least.

There were only five people working in this office at any given time, so the grapevine (John snickered at his awful fruit pun) was awfully small. Right now it was the new kid (He made a mental note to learn the kid's name) for a receptionist, two day nurses, a night nurse just in case (who only worked when she was needed) and John. The day nurses were both older than John, one around five years older named Abby and one older than ten, named Brenda. Perhaps even twenty. He didn't want to feel rude and ask her age. John kept mostly to himself, as he knew that he'd replaced an older doctor who'd been loved by the community.

"Doctor Watson?" The green eyed kid stuck his head in the doorframe.

John glanced up at him and held up the fruit thing by one of its fingers (growths?). "Question before you start, what the heck is this thing?"

He giggled. Well, it was a small laugh, John didn't exactly know the difference between a giggle and a chuckle or whatever the heck it was.

"It's a Bhudda's fingers fruit. Now, um, there's a message for you on the phone."

John shrugged and got up to get the message, which was just a cancellation. Very routine stuff.

"Now, I've never seen these things at a Tesco," he said, referring to the thing on his desk. The kid laughed again.

"It's not something people eat often."

"Yeah, I'd guess. I'd get nightmares if I found this in a salad."

That night when John got home, he found a note taped to his door. It was on fancy Diogenes Club stationary, Mycroft's name printed across the top. _Hm_. _Why is Mycroft contacting me? _The note simply said, 'Answer your phone, Dr Watson.' John sighed and taped it up on the wall next to the landline.

Over the next few days, little thought was given to the papers on the coffee table. He did learn that the boy's name was Eoin and he indeed did hail from Dublin, which _was_ in Ireland, and he was working in the clinic to pay for medical school. One day, they were sitting down over tuna salad sandwiches for lunch (courtesy of Abby) and talking.

"Doctor Watson..." Eoin started.

"Hm?" John looked up from the sandwich.

"I've got a boyfriend back home."

"Well, why isn't he here?" John asked inquisitively through a mouthful of tuna salad.

Eoin started to laugh, curls going haywire. "Best response I've heard in a while."

John chuckled before returning to lunch.

He didn't pay much of a mind to their conversation until he saw the envelope on his table. _This envelope, these paper scraps, they have something to do with Sherlock. _He sat down and stared at the dotted piece of paper. _He'd have figured this out for me, wouldn't he have? Of course he would have. Does that mean I meant something to him? _He pondered that for a while over tea and toast and his puzzles. _I was a friend at least. _He looked at the Russian writing. Five minutes later the English equivalent was written on a post-it. The scribbled letters read, quite oddly, _What if you were blind?_

For some reason, John felt a pang of loss. Losing something so important, something that he relied on every day and took for granted... _Sherlock Sherlock Sherlock Sherlock,_ sang the part of his brain that was an asshole. John hung his head and sighed, fed up with puzzles and fed up with absolutely everything reminding him of his absent _(dead, he's dead) _flatmate... No, friend... No... Partner in crime? John tried to label Sherlock for a good fifteen minutes or so before deeming it hopeless and going to bed.


	4. Chapter 4

_What if you were blind...what if you were blind...what if you were blind...Think like Sherlock._

John let these words tumble around in his head, occasionally tasting them out loud. He decided to make a list. This is what spilled out onto the paper:

_If I Were Blind:_

_-I never would have been a soldier, nor a doctor_

_-I never would have known Sherlock_

_-I wouldn't be in this predicament because I wouldn't be able to see these words_

John put down the pen. His mobile dinged with a text.

_You're thinking too literally_.

The number was nothing the doctor had seen before. _Who are you?_ He texted back. He didn't receive a reply. He considered the words, then turned back to his list.

_I'd read and write...not English, though, what's it called...Braille?_

John stopped, feeling like he'd just solved something, but he had no idea what. He did, though, have a tingly feeling on the back of his neck. There was something, his mind knew it, but currently John didn't. 'Braille' had some significance. He chewed on the inside of his cheek for a while (a habit that Sherlock had silently dubbed 'cute'), and pondered what 'Braille' could mean. Then John's brain apparently found what he was looking for.

_Holy hell that's it. The dots on that paper they must be Braille! Why the hell would they be Braille but it works!_

John spent half an hour leant over the spotted paper, using a small Braille online chart to decipher the dotted paper. He ended up with question marks for half the little dot grids, as they didn't seem to have any Braille equivalents whatsoever. It ended up like this:

_?JIW?C? J?I? E? ?E?I_

Definitely not a message. John moved the letters around, flipped them, nothing. He tried substituting the closest-looking ones for the question marks and got this:

OJIWWSCY JSWXIO EO CWEZI

The best he could get out of that was

XI COW IS JEW JOY

He didn't think happy Jewish cows were the point of this message, and if they were, someone _seriously_ needed to rethink their sense of humor.

He had some fun with punctuation (Xi, cow is Jew! Joy!) for shits and giggles, then sighed. It seemed like he'd gotten the Braille thing right, as some of the letters translated right in. John chewed his lip, then his pen, wearing his best thinking face. _If this is about Sherlock, I need to do it. _

_Okay, so think about the other pieces of the paper. The Braille one you figured out already, but what about 'mirror'? Mirror...I don't think 'Xi cow is Jew joy' will look like much in the mirror..._

"Oh, oh!" John made a very Sherlockian noise of recognition and grabbed the dotted paper and his mobile phone. He raced to the loo and held up the paper and his mobile to the mirror, snapping pictures of the paper repeatedly from every angle conceivable, then ran back to the couch and quickly worked on the message until these words lay in front of him:

SHERLOCK HOLMES IS ALIVE

John stopped breathing. "Oh, oh god. This must be a joke-" His mobile dinged.

_You are more clever than I had anticipated. _Same number.

_Is this a joke?_ Asked John.

_Not at all._

_Mycroft, come on._

_Ah, so you've guessed._

_All of this _reeks_ Holmes, Mycroft._

_I give you credit for that one._

_So Sherlock's alive..._

_Yes. He gave me permission to inform you of this after one year exactly._

_It's been nearly a year and a half!_

_Now, now, John, it was you who put off my puzzle._

_Why Russian?_

_He's in Russia. _

_Oh. Can I see him? _The miracle John had wished for over a year ago was here.

_Let me correct myself- he _was_ in Russia. I believe he'll be taking a plane next month. I've paid your rent at 221B for this month if you'd like to move out of that dreadful bachelor flat._

_Thank you, Mycroft. _

_No need. Please do move out, though. I can almost smell your laundry through the cameras._

John chuckled and got to washing. _ I suppose you're planning on a fantastic return for him then._

_Considerably showy._

It still hadn't truly sunk into John's brain that Sherlock was alive and well and completely and totally coming home. Once it did, though, he sat down in front of the telly, tea in hand, and just laughed quietly for a while, occasionally having to wipe his eyes. There was a part of his brain, somewhere in there that knew that Sherlock had never been well and truly gone.

_He's got a new mobile I suppose? _John asked Mycroft, suddenly wanting to talk to Sherlock. Mycroft just texted him a number, which John called.

"John. I was wondering when Mycroft would let you have my number. He's known it for months." For some reason, John shook, tears threatening to escape.

"Sherlock... You're..."

"Alive, yes, I know. Brilliant, yes? I needed to get the media off my tail for a while. Also, there was some surveillance from more than a few recognizable agencies on us, it was getting dull."

"So you found yourself some cases across the world."

"In those countries where the government is more corrupt than most. Less dull."

"Were you in America long?" deadpanned John, truly wondering how he could make a joke. Sherlock didn't reply. "I'm joking, Sherlock."

"Ah. Anyway, I'm currently being chased by the Mafia." His breath was only slightly faster than usual.

"Don't get yourself shot. I don't recommend it."

"I'll try to stay out of the line of fire."

A laugh bubbled up in John's throat out of sheer happiness. "Coming home in a blaze of glory isn't the same with a bullet wound."

"I presume you've talked to Mycroft, then."

John smiled. "Don't get killed, Sherlock. I'd hate for you to die twice."

"I've been informed that I would be missed."

"Very." Worry settled into John like a sleeping cat, a weight that was there, heavy, but almost enough to be ignored if it didn't keep moving.

"I'll have home waiting for you, then."

Sherlock let the cutely domestic comment fly over his head, not wanting his concentration anywhere but the Russian rooftops he was currently jumping between. "Goodbye, John."

"Don't get shot." The soft _click_ on the other line informed him that whatever issue that Sherlock had with any Mafia took precedence over a telephone conversation. John shook his head as sheer emotion flushed over him, leaving him to smile stupidly and stand, nearly wobbly on his own feet. _Sherlock's coming home. _John didn't know exactly how his heart felt about that fact, except for a nearly dizzying rush of relief. He felt quite wired, yet when he hit the bed he fell asleep instantly and had a very confusing dream.

_I've been waiting for this moment for over a year, there's no reason that I cannot wait two more hours. Control yourself, John. You know patience. _John paced near the luggage claim, wearing his favorite jumper as it was a little chilly out and worrying his bottom lip between his teeth, a truly awful habit that he'd been meaning to break. _It'll be fine. I have home and two cups of tea waiting for him. If I think it's fine, why am I so nervous? Has he changed? _Sherlock's flight had been delayed by two hours and for some reason that bothered John to no end. He was anxious, and it showed somewhat despite his trying to reign it in. After buying a coffee and newspaper at one of those irritating stores, he sat down and read, wishing he'd brought his laptop. Sherlock appeared to grab a small bag and then walked away.

"Sherlock?" he called. Sherlock ignored him. John rushed after him, leaving his coffee. "Sherlock?"

Sherlock turned around, spat a colorful insult at him, and left.

John woke up nauseated. _Thank God that was a dream. That can't happen. It just can't._ He paused to look at the ceiling and just breathe._ What if it does? _Asked that asshole part of his brain again. _It can't. _He got up, nervous. Only two weeks until Sherlock was back, and he had so much to do. Resign from the clinic, apply for a job in a London hospital, talk to his current landlady, then move out and make 221B his home again. He got up and made his bed. There was a lot to do today.

A week later, John was again living in the flat he and Sherlock had once called home. Everything was exactly as it had been, except John had cleaned everything and tidied it up a bit. He'd left Sherlock's bed untouched, though he'd straightened the periodic table print that the dark-haired man had been fond of as an afterthought.

_I'd be lost without my blogger_ danced pleasantly around his head for no particular reason.

He spent the next few days oddly happy, adjusting back into the daily rise and fall of London. The city was a living, breathing thing- nothing ever quite stopped. Life went on, and John found himself oddly comforted by it.

The day of the flight went perfectly. He woke up early, made two cups of tea (just how Sherlock liked them) and put them in the microwave to heat later. He wore the cream colored jumper and brown trousers, homey and comfortable, and headed out to meet Sherlock's flight. Instead of pacing nervously at baggage claim, he leaned against the wall of the hallway that the passengers exited to get to their bags- it was a long, wide hallway, and John was the solitary figure there, as the redeye to London from Berlin (from Kiev from Moscow) wasn't too packed. He waited a scarce few minutes, and then knots of tired businesspeople started trickling in to the grand hall, most taking the escalators, a late few taking the stairs in the middle. John waited until the suits were gone, then stood at the foot of the stairs, smiling slightly. Sherlock was always one to show off.

The man himself showed up at the top of the stairs, resplendent in that dark purple shirt John loved, a trimly cut black suit, and his trademark coat, complete with scarf. He was paler than John remembered, his hair wilder. Sherlock's eyes shone blue, and he looked breathtaking, something John didn't even notice until he'd released the breath.

The shout of "John!" was loud and excited as Sherlock leapt down the stairs, taking sometimes five or six at a time. John lit up with anticipation as Sherlock reached the ground and stood before him. They were both smiling stupidly- grinning, really, as Sherlock swept the smaller man into a hug. John was utterly surprised and could feel himself blushing as he was pressed right up against Sherlock's heart. He closed his eyes and just breathed for a second, completely happy. As soon as Sherlock stepped away, John felt all the other emotions flooding in. Sherlock quickly deduced that his pulse was elevated, that he'd recently shaved, that the shoes and socks were new but nothing else was, that he was living on Baker Street again and that he'd been nervous. John just smiled for a second more before he started to talk.

"Sherlock Holmes," John hissed, "You are the biggest bastard I've ever had the fortune to meet. I thought you were dead. I started limping again, and I had to go back to my goddamned therapist because you decided to go on holiday in Russia. And of course, instead of just saying so, you had to go and fake your own death, right in front of me and not tell your bloody _best friend_ that you were alive and well. You, Sherlock Holmes, are the world's biggest prat."

Sherlock looked slightly struck (or so he thought) but stayed calm.

"I'm so glad you're alive."


	5. Chapter 5

The look of badly concealed shock on Sherlock's face was oddly adorable and childish, blue eyes wide. "Not good?"

"No, Sherlock, _very_ not good." John sighed. "Let's go home."

He added just the right amount of milk to Sherlock's tea and handed the teacup to him on a saucer.

"Thank you, John." Sherlock smiled slightly.

John smiled and fetched his own tea (less milk) and sat down in his chair opposite Sherlock. "How did you do it?"

"Do what?" Sherlock elegantly blew on his tea.

"Not die, Sherlock. I swear I saw you die."

"I don't want to endanger you."

John was quietly boggled. "What exactly did you just say?"

"I don't want you to die for my secrets. Seriously injured is fine. Death, no."

"I swear, Sherlock, if I weren't so happy to see you I would punch you in the face."

Sherlock tried not to flinch. "I would rather not go through that again."

"Remember, I had my bad days." John said with a hint of a smile.

"So I've seen." Sherlock scanned the flat. "No new girlfriends in my absence?"

"None of your business, Sherlock Holmes."

The edge of Sherlock's mouth quirked up just so. "That's a no, then?"

John sighed softly, returning his teacup to the saucer. Jeanette's words echoed around his head. _My friends were wrong about you. You're a _great_ boyfriend. You'd do anything for him._

Sherlock looked at him in interest. "What exactly are you thinking, John?"

"How I have no luck with women, thanks to you."

"Dull. They're all dull." Sherlock commented, making a vaguely annoyed face.

"Am I _dull_?" John asked, slightly irritated.

"No, you're interesting." He leant slightly forwards in his chair. "Less predictable than most."

"Am I really. Hm." He nodded crisply and took the teacups to the sink.

"You're not angry with me."

"I was."

"Not anymore," he said, interest piqued. "But why? I've disappeared on you for a year, you have every right to be angry. Yet you're pleased. Why?"

"Because I missed you, you insufferable prat. There. Feel better now?"

Sherlock sent him a glance which said _I've not given up on figuring you out, John Watson, _over his trademark steepled fingers.

"I'm not one of your cases to be figured out, Sherlock."

"You are now," he said, eyes flicking over John. "You don't want me to be bored, do you?"

"Oh, God, no."

Mycroft sat back in his chair, sufficiently pleased. John was worthy of his brother after all. First the puzzle, next the patience. If they were lucky, maybe he would even rub off on Sherlock.

Sherlock was taking a break from figuring out his flatmate. Said flatmate was checking the papers. "Sherlock, there's been a double homicide on High Street."

"Anything interesting about it?"

"Ah, says here 'police are stumped...locked room...apparent murder-suicide...' yet _apparently_ the murderous one has been dead longer. Mycroft could get you the police file, probably, I really do not want you getting bored."

Sherlock sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose, a soft, long-suffering sigh. "I have to _be_ there, John. A police file is no use. They're a bunch of blubbering idiots."

"Let's break in, then."

Sherlock glanced over at him over steepled fingers. "John, have you eaten anything rotten recently?"

"No. Almost anything is preferable to fear of getting shot in your own flat."

"Right, midnight it is, then."

The side of John's mouth quirked. "You couldn't have picked a less dramatic time, now, could you, Sherlock?"

"Midnight is a perfectly fine time."

John sighed. _Oh, Sherlock. Always as dramatic as he can possibly be._

Sherlock spent a lot of time thinking about John, as he was currently the only good distraction around. Not for any other reason. Of course not. That's what he told himself, anyway. He had noticed many things about John already, that he took only a little milk in his tea, that he kept his hair nearly army short but just out of habit, that he liked to watch Sherlock, when he was working or otherwise. Sherlock enjoyed his company.

_Aren't ordinary people adorable?_

John was a fascinating mix of ordinary and extraordinary. Sherlock liked him, and John at least put up with him.

A couple of weeks later, Sherlock came across a frightening thing. One of the doors in his mind palace was missing. "John," he said quickly. John looked up from his cereal and newspaper.

"Yes, Sherlock?"

"Something is missing."

"The foot in the fridge went bad a long time ago, Sher."

"Not that, John, something important is missing."

"What is it?" He looked up, still dressed in one of those blue striped shirts that he wore to bed, cereal and milk falling slowly off his spoon.

"In my mind palace, one of the doors, it's gone."

"Did you delete the things in there?"

"No, no, it was something important...but I can't remember what it was."

"It'll come back, Sherlock." Sherlock looked so frustrated and concerned that John bit his lip and put away the cereal in favor of tea. "Here, drink it."

Sherlock accepted the drink and nursed it, seemingly somewhere far away. "John?" he asked suddenly, very blue eyes focused on him.

"Yes?" he replied, feeling very transparent.

"My brother sent you a puzzle, didn't he?"

"Um, yes."

Sherlock smirked slightly, quite animated as he popped out of his seat and pulled on his coat. "Get dressed, we're going to go pay him a visit."

"Why are we visiting Mycroft at nine in the morning? For that fact, why are we even visiting Mycroft?"

"I'm going to confront him."

John sighed and obeyed him, dressing in his third favorite jumper, as his top two were in the pile of laundry somewhere in his closet. "Wait, you're telling me that Mycroft lives somewhere other than the Diogenes Club?"

Sherlock smirked a bit. "He does, and someone visits him there quite frequently if I'm not mistaken."

"Which you almost never are...Wait, who exactly is visiting him?" John asked.

"Lestrade, when his wife's taking her lovers home."

John opened his mouth to respond when his mind registered what Sherlock had said. "Wait, Mycroft and _Lestrade? _Mycroft and _anybody?"_ He looked so shocked that Sherlock had to tug him by the hand out of Baker Street. John pulled out of his shock halfway there to realize that he was holding hands with Sherlock Holmes in the back of a cab. He flushed but didn't mind much- Sherlock was oddly warm and John's fingers were cold anyway, and as he'd forgotten a coat, he didn't have a warm pocket instead. He didn't drop Sherlock's hand even when they got out of the cab, he figured his logic still stood. Sherlock smiled slightly and took him to Mycroft's flat. He knocked gently in an interesting rhythmic pattern that John tried to commit to memory, but it disappeared quickly. Sherlock opened the door and they practically fell in. They must have been quite a sight to Mycroft- it was early, John was still wearing his pajama pants, Sherlock his full regalia, coat and scarf and were both flushed with cold (a bit more than cold in the blond's case) and were holding hands. Mycroft's eyes flicked curiously downwards to their clasped hands before putting the newspaper down and standing up.

"He's not yet gone, has he?" asked Sherlock, interest and a smirk visible.

"What? Whom?" asked Mycroft, feigning innocence.

"Don't play innocent, brother-mine. It _doesn't suit you." _Sherlock gave a devilish smirk. "Lestrade?" he called.

"Yes?" called the Detective Inspector's voice from the kitchen as he stepped out with a mug of coffee, salt and pepper stubble littering his jaw and his shirt and hair very rumpled, as well as his boxers, though Mycroft looked flawless in one of his three piece suits, pocket watch chained elegantly to his vest. (The Holmes brothers were very much morning people (or anytime people, in Sherlock's case. He could look drop dead gorgeous at three in the morning, working on one of his experiments).)

Sherlock smiled as Lestrade lost his grip on the coffee, but not before Mycroft had elegantly hooked it on his umbrella handle, returning it to the startled man's grip without a drop spilled. Mycroft had narrowed his eyes, looking at his brother.

"I've come to make you a deal, dear brother, though I am curious as to why Greg Lestrade is occupying your kitchen at nine thirty am, wearing rumpled nightclothes."

Lestrade still had the priceless _oh shit_ look on his face. It was very amusing. There was a pause as Sherlock glanced around to find something incriminating, and John found himself smiling. Sherlock must have found something really good, as he smiled a catty, evil smile.

"Bdsm, really, Mycroft? I know you just _love _being powerful, but you really must treat your boyfriends more nicely."

One of Lestrade's hands went instinctively to the raw, scarlet ring around his wrist, a clear marker of last night and this morning's...fun.

Both John and Greg blushed rather badly as the Holmes boys stared icily at each other. Mycroft broke the silence with a remark edged with threat.

"My personal life is of no matter to you, _brother-mine." _

"Nor is mine, Mycroft, so I come to ask that you politely remove the camera from John's bedroom."

John went puce as two thoughts swelled to fill his head. One, _There's a camera in my bedroom? _ And two, _Sherlock's been in my bedroom?_

Mycroft narrowed his eyes in an elegant glare, twirling his umbrella around the floor. His tone was sickly sweet. "I must make sure you're not getting into too much trouble, _brother dear_."

"And you suppose that I'm making trouble in John's bedroom _why_?"

John flushed even worse as the pair stared at each other hatefully.

"Right, well then, I think I'll get going," said Lestrade quickly, in the most professional voice he could muster caught in Mycroft's flat the morning after.

"Greg, _do_ stay," said Mycroft with artificial politeness. Lestrade looked about as awkward as anyone could possibly get.

"Hm...I wonder if your rare time off last year was spent in this very flat?" Sherlock asked, sarcasm biting through his tone. John was suddenly keenly aware of their joined hands. Lestrade's ears went red.

Mycroft looked irritated. "You have no business being here, Sherlock. Please, escort yourself out." He gestured with his omnipresent umbrella.

"Before we go, one last issue."

"And that would be?" Mycroft asked carefully, eyes narrow.

"If you continue to infringe on our property, the news of your..._affair _with our favourite Detective Inspector will be on the desk of every subordinate and superior of his, all of whom I can easily gain access to. Also, Mycroft, I have a feeling your Diogenes Club 'membership' will disappear after the news of this litters every centimetre of the place. Come now John, we should go." He took John back out of the flat.

"That was...ridiculous. Did you really just threaten _Lestrade_? Bloody hell, Sherlock."

He gave a catlike smirk. "Mycroft is fun to scare. I don't often have much to threaten him with. He's usually so careful."

John was quiet for the short cab ride home, letting everything sink in. As they breached 221B's threshold, though, he spoke up. "What were the red rings around Lestrade's wrists, and why were you interested in them?"

"Handcuff marks," Sherlock answered easily.

"Handcuff marks?" John repeated, questioning. "Why would Lestrade have handcuff marks on him in Mycroft's flat?"

Sherlock chuckled slightly. "For someone who serial dates, John, you really don't know much about sex, do you?"

John reverted to his fantastic scarlet. "They- oh god. _Oh god_. Your _brother _and _Lestrade, _they, oh god."

"Eloquent," Sherlock remarked, deadpan.

"Prat," he muttered, equally deadpan. "Wait, why are we still holding hands?"

"I was under the impression that you didn't mind."

John almost dropped the dark-haired man's hand like a stone, then realized that Sherlock was right.


	6. Chapter 6

They spent a majority of that night on the couch, sitting so close that their thighs touched. It was comfortable, silent contact, and neither disliked it. Sherlock was writing ("Another '240 Varieties of Tobacco Ash?'" John wondered), and John was reading an interesting medical text about eradicated diseases. He'd just reached the section about smallpox when Sherlock closed the laptop (his this time, John had his own hidden away in his closet ever since Sherlock had taken to guessing his password and using it when it was closer, but he wasn't telling Sherlock that) and stood up. The side of John's leg where he'd been touching the other man was suddenly quite cold. He glanced up at Sherlock with a silent question in his eyes.

"I need to solve something, John, I need something that requires an answer." He shook his head quickly to clear it.

"Any other cold cases on file?" John asked, turning his head to see his flatmate, who was currently pacing near the kitchen's entrance.

"Probably, but what use is a file? I need a crime scene..."

"Lestrade knows you exist now, maybe-"

"Lestrade is 'shagging' my brother, John." Sherlock cut in smoothly, the slang word sounding like he was eating trash, but couldn't find anything better.

John made an unpleasant face not unlike he'd smelled something rancid. (Perhaps the trash Sherlock had been eating in the last simile?)

"We could at least legally get access to a crime now, though, right?"

Sherlock's eyes sharpened as he focused on John. (John almost gulped.) "We could, now, couldn't we? Ha." John regretted saying this as soon as the words had slipped past Sherlock's lips.

Three double homicides, one murder-suicide, one suicide (deemed 'Boring'), and two single homicides Sherlock had solved by the end of three weeks. John was keeping a list, as he couldn't blog and writing mysteries was laughable with Sherlock around. The disguised charisma radiating off him was a drug that John didn't know he had done, and the withdrawal symptoms tugged at him every second that he wasn't around Sherlock. They had appeared suddenly and were getting worse. John didn't remember withdrawal before Sherlock had gone, and now Sherlock's mystery drug had him in a tight hold above an abyss, threatening to let go if John was away from him too long. Even the nights were difficult- John would wake up with a tight band around his waist, seemingly tightening, depriving him of breath until he filled his mind with Sherlock, still a poor substitute for seeing him, being with him, sharing his air. John thought that there was something wrong with him, that he was becoming delirious.

Then he realized that something much worse was happening.

_Am I falling in love with Sherlock Holmes_? John asked himself, but it wasn't love as much of an omnipresent, tugging need at his heartstrings.

John avoided this fact as much as he possibly could. He focused on smaller things, like making tea and reading and confronting Mycroft on his spare time. He tried and failed to find jobs at local hospitals, and the simple fact that he _couldn't land any job whatsoever_ irritated him to no end. He was overqualified for everything he interviewed for, and yet in the middle of interviews his mind would drift back to the dark-haired man at home. This easily got him unfocused, his brain and heart betraying him for someone he kind of hated.

He opened the door to Sherlock talking and he realized that his flatmate had probably been talking to him all day, not realizing he was gone.

"Sher, I'm home, and I bought milk."

Sherlock stopped in the middle of gesturing and said in an oddly small voice, "John..."

"What's wrong, Sherlock?" There was something extremely _off_ about Sherlock's eyes. It horrified him.

"My mind palace...it's not all there anymore...John, I think I'm losing my mind." His eyes looked odd, his pupils blown as if he was on some kind of drug, normal blue electrified to something completely unnatural. John froze and set the milk down as quickly as he could.

"Sherlock, Sherlock, stop for a minute, what's going on?" he demanded, tone quavering with suppressed worry. Sherlock paused to look straight at him, worrying gray and blue and brown meeting a shockingly electric color that should exist nowhere in nature.

"I'm losing my mind, John," he whispered. "All of my knowledge, my thoughts, falling away like sand on a sieve. Something broke." He picked the knife up from the mantle and hurled it into the wall, where it stuck all the way in. John could feel the blade slice off a wayward strand of blond hair as it _whoosh_ed past him. His eyes widened, rivaling Sherlock's uncannily large pupils, and in that moment he came to a conclusion that chilled him to the core.

This madman, the man with the too blue eyes throwing knives, the one losing his mind and talking to an empty flat...John trusted him completely. He didn't know why, or how, or when, and the idea flitted across his line of concentration for barely a half second before his military training kicked in and he grabbed Sherlock's wrist and forced it down. Seconds later Sherlock was pinned securely to the hardwood floor, wrists held down and shockingly blue eyes shrinking back to normal, uncanny color fading away into the hard steely blue that reflected sane Sherlock so perfectly.

"Thank you...I was acting..." Sherlock shook his head slightly. "John..."

John let him go.

"There is something wrong..." He got up, brushing himself off. John adjusted his sleeves as if he'd just been brushed against and nothing else. Sherlock enveloped him into an embrace again, but it wasn't like the one from before. This time, John was his rock, his connection to the earth below him, and Sherlock, the uncharacteristically shaking figure, could not let go of this connection, or he would fall into the sky and be swept away, remembered by next to none.

"Sherlock..." John found himself smoothing Sherlock's hair like he was a child in need of comfort. Sherlock breathed rhythmically again into John's shoulder, something suddenly mended. "It's okay. I'm here, I'll always be here."

They ended up in Sherlock's bed, just holding hands. Sherlock fell asleep, though he had been wired, and John ended up just being okay sleeping next to him.

His withdrawal did not start. John slept well, for the first time in a while, without the band around his waist. He woke up first and burned five slices of toast before calling for Mrs Hudson. She made 'her boys' French toast with strawberries, and John went in to wake Sherlock, who was awake already, sitting on the edge of the bed with the sheet wrapped lazily around him, head in his hands, so all John could see was the flawless -

_Slightly freckled?_ John wasn't sure- expanse of Sherlock's back and the mop of black hair, uncombed and mussed, and finally the sheet, barely covering his lower back and all underneath. John shook his head like it would erase his last few thoughts.

"Sher, breakfast. And you're eating, deal with it, there's nothing going on."

Sherlock stands up, barely catching the sheet before it slides down. John's ears go a little red. "Get dressed."

"Why?" he shrugged as if wearing a sheet (_just a sheet)_ around your possibly bisexual flatmate more than once was a normal occurrence.

John sighed. "At least keep the sheet." He headed back out to the kitchen, grabbing the food and setting it on the table that they used for absolutely everything. It was now marred with a chemical burn from one of Sherlock's more recent experiments with hydrochloric acid and fingernails after death. John 'tsk'ed and brushed the assortment of newspapers and case files to one side, fetching the water glasses and filling them from the tap. Sherlock strode out of his bedroom in the sheet, hair still just as messy. John sat and pushed the other chair out with his foot.

"Mrs Hudson made us French toast," he explained through a mouthful.

"The only things we had in the fridge were mouldy cheese, expired milk, a bag full of thumbs, and a half-drunk beer."

"She brought it up," he said by way of explanation.

"Ah. If she'd managed to make breakfast from the things in our fridge I'd-"

"And she binned the thumbs. Sorry, Sher."

Sherlock tapped his fingers on the table, impatience visible. "I was using those to test-"

"Just...acquire more thumbs," John sighed and stabbed another piece of French toast, "And no, I am not a willing donor."

Their next time at a crime scene was welcomed by John, as Sherlock had grown bored without any thumbs or murders. He decided to take out his boredom on Lestrade, who was fully analyzed and dissected.

"You didn't sleep at home last night, was it the English teacher she brought home this time? Yet you're wearing one of Mycroft's shirts to cover the marks on your wrists. You thought that was a good idea? And yes, Lestrade, I know it's Mycroft's shirt, not yours. Yours are usually cheap cotton and polyester blends, due to your paycheck. Mycroft wears silk shirts, usually Asian and always expensive. You're wearing tan silk- not your outfit of choice, now, is it? No buttons at the cuffs, so not a casual shirt, yet the cufflinks are the cheapest you could find in his flat- so trying to be inconspicuous. Not exactly working for you now. Your trousers are your own, but they've spent the night on Mycroft's floor-" Sherlock then noticed the glare he was being given, but John sent the Detective Inspector a look that said _just let him do don't want him shooting things,_ so the salt-and-pepper-haired man stopped. "And are slightly wrinkled, even though they were steamed this morning. You shaved, but not with your own razor, and as you've got razor burn and you've missed a couple patches, rather quickly as well. The tie is silk, but it is yours- most likely a present from my brother. He prefers ties without patterns in more neutral colours. Yours is rather flamboyant, suggesting a gift. Certainly not your wife, so then who? Who did you spend the night with last night? Answer, Mycroft."

"And all this before we reach the crime scene," John finished, half snarking and half proud, though the deadpan tone of voice gave away little.

"Now you shut your mouth, Sherlock," Lestrade warned, "Or I'll stop letting you in on this whatsoever."

"We already knew you were sleeping with Mycroft, the rest is obvious," The tallest man in the cab kept the conversation going, waving his hand dismissively.

John gave a good-natured, rather apologetic smile. "I'm afraid that's what you get for being around one half of the Holmes boys all the time."

"Tell me about it," Greg Lestrade muttered.

After a few minutes at the crime scene [a flat in northern London] inspecting the victim, [a plump, dark skinned, middle aged woman who owned far too many tiny dogs] Sherlock deemed it a simple garden-variety murder.

"Arrest her brother," He said, sniffing her fingertips, "If he owns this cologne."

"Brilliant," muttered John.

"After two years, more, John, you _still_ say that out loud."

John just smiled. It seemed like Sherlock was back to his old self.

But as they were having after-dinner tea, Sherlock's hands kept shaking as he replaced the teacup in the saucer.

"Sherlock, what's wrong?"

"John, I am slowly coming undone."

John nearly dropped his teacup, but managed to set it down safely. "Is it just your mind palace?"

"Yes, but my mind palace holds all of my memories, John, I cannot function properly without it." He seemed tense, on edge, not something that Sherlock generally was.

"Sherlock, you need to do something."

"I don't trust doctors...except you, of course..."

"Sherlock..."


End file.
